The Time We Know
by Channel D
Summary: X-over with Star Trek:TNG. Gibbs and his team have come aboard the starship Enterprise. What marvels will the 24th century present, and how will this change them? More of a character study than an action piece. Written for an NFA challenge. Complete.
1. Similarities

**The Time We Know**

**by channelD**

_written_ for: the NFA _Star Trek Crossover_ challenge. The aim of the challenge is to have the NCIS team meet up with the characters of _Star Trek_...any _Star Trek_...either in our future, or in their past.  
_rating_: K plus  
_genre_: AU, science fiction, drama  
_characters_: Gibbs, Tony, Ziva, Tim, and the cast of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_

- - - - -

_disclaimer_: I own nothing of either NCIS nor of Star Trek. If I did, I'd be rich!

- - - - -

**_Prologue_**

"I'm not certain whether I'm to apologize to you, or to throw you into my brig," said the bald-headed man in an angry tone as he walked around the foursome. Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the U.S.S. _Enterprise, _had deliberately seated the newcomers in chairs close together in the center of his ready room, two facing one way, two the opposite way. It was a small power set-up, where they couldn't all see each other's eyes.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed, and his voice was strained. The three hours on the ship already felt like three days without sleep. "With all due respect, Captain; as I've already said, we were chasing our suspect, who was wanted in two murders—"

"He was _our_ suspect, Agent Gibbs. He was born in the 24th century, committed crimes here equally heinous, fled to your time, and so in pursuit—"

"Yes, we know. You nabbed us in the same net by accident." Gibbs was weary. They'd been over this ground before; several times now. He was amazed that he was no longer stunned by being over 300 years in the future. The military never seemed to change, and maybe that was some comfort. Beside him, however, Tim was still wide-eyed, looking around the ready room, trying to analyze—even comprehend—all the wonders he saw. Gibbs wondered what Tony and Ziva were thinking.

"So what shall I do with you now?" asked Picard, looking Gibbs straight in the eye.

"Send us back to 2008?"

"Not possible at the moment. We're already well beyond range for that; it will be at least eight weeks before we're in position again—and that's only if we're not called away for something else." He responded to a chime from his computer. "Ah. Your backgrounds all check out. Good, good. I'll be pleased to have you all as guests of the Enterprise, then. You'll have the run of the ship, except for a few secure areas." As the four smiled tentatively, Picard added, "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Gibbs smiled slightly. "Do you still drink coffee in the 24th century?"

"Not I, but some do. How do you take it?"

"Strong and black."

Picard appeared to address the wall. "Coffee. Strong. Black. Hot." In less than half a minute a steaming cup appeared. The NCIS agents gaped. Gibbs accepted it, sipped it, and his eyes widened. It was superb.

"Could I please have fruit juice?" asked Ziva.

"Of course," said Picard. "Whingberry. Cold," he said to the wall, and brought her a tall, frosted glass of a blue-lavender liquid. "A favorite of the ship. From the planet Holsham II."

Ziva looked at it gravely, and then tasted it. Her smile was huge.

Tony turned his head and lightly punched Tim's arm. "Ask for a _Caf-Pow!"_ he whispered.

"You," Tim whispered back.

"I'm scared, Probie."

"I am, too. We're a long way from home…and going farther away every second." The view out the window of the stars receding was anything but homelike.

- - - - -

**_Chapter 1: Similarities_**

Turned out in a borrowed set of unmarked navy-and-white tunic and slacks, Tony was enjoying his endless meandering of the ship. It was now his third day of exploration, and he was feeling more at ease all the time. At first he'd been a bit put out by the unfamiliar clothes, but when it was explained to him that it would take the ship's laundry facilities some time to understand the archaic 21st century cloth and weave, he'd shrugged and accepted the clothing offered. It was a marvel to him that this new material could be endlessly washed or reconstituted or whatever magic they said they did to it. He didn't understand the process, but that wasn't important; only the results were.

The room he was sharing with Tim was large enough and reasonably pleasant. The food-machine-in-the-wall-thingie was another puzzle, but Tony was happy to accept it for what it was. You ordered it, in specific language, to deliver food, and it readily complied. There were a few downfalls to it, though: it didn't know what a Philly cheese steak was, nor rocky road ice cream. How could civilization have fallen so in just a few centuries? Tony had some worries that Tim might starve to death, for he would order food and then just stare at the wall-thingie, trying to figure it out. They might have to force feed him.

But that wasn't high on Tony's priorities…certainly not as high as checking out all the lovely people of the female persuasion on the ship. Tony thanked his lucky stars (ha!) that this man's navy was, more precisely, this man's and woman's navy. Flirtation didn't seem to have changed much over the centuries, although some of his best pick-up lines now only returned puzzled looks or laughs. He'd have to work on that. If indeed they'd be back to an earth drop-off point in eight weeks…well, there would be no shortage of date opportunities in the meantime.

Somewhere, there was bound to be a web (they still had the web, didn't they? How could they not have the web?) entry for 24th century slang. That was what he needed to know to look cool and mingle. _Hey, baby; what's your sign?_ had come and gone long before he'd entered the dating ranks, but then, maybe everything old was new again. It was so confusing.

Besides dating, Tony just plain found a fascination with the on-ship society. As a former cop, not to mention a special agent, he'd been pretty good at reading people. Here, far in the future, he was pleased to see that they were no different from his own time. Sure, they dressed differently, and none of the accents were quite like anything he remembered, but they still had the same emotions. At least, the earth-natives did. The non-human, non-earth people (not that there were many of them) were different in their own ways, but they clearly strove to adapt to the ways of the human majority, to fit in and do their jobs, in most cases.

_United Federation of Planets_…And here he'd always thought the US federal government was as big a bureaucracy as he could ever imagine.

He spent time talking to as many people as he could in their spare moments. There was rarely a person so in a rush that they wouldn't stop for a short chat. It was energizing, and also comforting. So far, his time was pretty enjoyable.

- - - - -

"Whoa! Sorry!" he said simultaneously with another man as they nearly collided at a turn in the corridor. This was five days into the team's arrival on the _Enterprise._

"My fault, I wasn't paying close enough attention," said the other man, who looked somewhat authoritative. "You must be one of our time-displaced guests. I've just gotten back on board and heard about you people. Will Riker."

Tony shook the offered hand. "Anthony, or Tony, DiNozzo. I beg your pardon, but I can't recognize the ranks yet—"

"Commander."

"Do I, ah, address you as 'sir', then?"

It was a polite enough question, but Tony sensed that the other man recognized a certain amount of insolence, or disregard for authority, behind it. The man looked like he was holding back a grin, feeling perhaps a kindred spirit. His tone remained polite and mildly friendly. "You're a guest here. 'Will' will do."

"Nice to meet you, Will."

"Are you settling in all right, Tony? Any problems or concerns?"

Tony started to speak, and then laughed. "You sound more like the ship's purser. Or cruise director. Do you still have those?"

Will grinned. "No, but I know what they are. And I'm sorry if I came off a little formal. I meet a lot of people, and…well, never mind that. What do they have you doing?"

"Doing? Here?" Tony felt a fleeting panic. "I wasn't aware I was supposed to be doing anything. Captain Picard said we could have the run of the ship."

"Ah," said Will, who then glanced away. Tony recognized this as the sign of one who didn't agree with the ruling of his superior.

"If I'm supposed to be doing something, or can help the ship in anyway…"

"No, no; you should be free to enjoy your time here. Do as you've been doing."

"Aren't you afraid…isn't there supposed to be some danger in my teammates and I returning to our own time, with all this futuristic knowledge? Are you going to erase our memories before we go?" He cringed at the thought.

Will laughed. "That won't be necessary. Fiction writers used that ploy for a couple hundred years. Come on, Tony; when you go back and tell your people about the _Enterprise_…who's going to believe you?"

Sighing, Tony put his hand on his neck. "No one, I guess. I'm not sure I believe it myself."

"Oh, it's not that serious. Listen, have you been to 10-Forward yet?"

"No, what is it?"

"It's the ship's lounge. I'll take you there, and buy you a drink."

"A bar? On a Navy vessel??" Intrigued, Tony followed the commander.

- - - - -

It was indeed a bar, a lounge, a hang-out. Tastefully decorated in calming tones, 10-Forward was inviting without being inciting. Tony recognized the necessity of it straight off: it was a place where people could come in their off-duty time, while the ship might be months away from a port-of-call with a suitable tavern.

"Welcome back, Will," said the smiling bartender, a woman with an exotic look. She appeared ageless, and wore a gown of many tucks and folds, and a turban-type affair on her head.

"Thanks, Guinan. It's great to be home," said Will. "And this is—"

"No, let me guess. Tony, right?"

"How did you—are you a telepath, or something? Do you have telepaths here in this time? I'm sure McGee would believe you do." Tony could barely stop his babble.

"No, I've just heard about your group, same as everyone else. You're the first one to visit my lounge. Now, what can I get you?"

Tony noticed she hadn't said how she knew his name, but shrugged that off. "Do you really serve alcohol?"

"No. I serve _synthehol_. It has the same taste, and gives you the same buzz, but there's none of the bad effects of alcohol: no hangovers, upset stomach, and so on."

Tony looked pleased. "I'll have a beer, then, please. Guinan."

"What brand?"

"Uh…I don't know. Probably nothing I'd recognize is around anymore. A lager, I guess."

A soft tone arose from the insignia on Will's shirt, and he tapped it once. "Riker…"

"_Will, I need to consult with you. Come to my ready room."_

"Right away, Captain." Will tapped the insignia again. "Sorry to have to run, Tony, but—"

"Duty calls. I understand."

"Good. See you later." Will clapped him on the shoulder, and left.

"He seems like a good person," Tony remarked to Guinan.

"One of the best."

Again that exotic smile. Tony noticed that as she turned her head, her dark eyes appeared to lighten. He nearly choked on his beer as it occurred to him that maybe she wasn't from earth. But she seemed nice. He had the feeling that he could talk to her about anything. So…

"Do you like your job? Bartending?"

"I get to talk to nearly everyone, and I like that. Almost everyone comes through here at one time or another."

"I like doing that, too. Except sometimes I think I talk too much and just shouldn't open my mouth. My mouth gets me into trouble."

She gave him a fresh lager. "People who can assess themselves honestly will go far."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think so?"

"Yes, I do. As I say, I get to talk to nearly everyone. And I do more than talk; I listen. I come from a planet of listeners. But you…NCIS people; you're like police, right? So you must be used to listening…observing…investigating."

"Yeah, I guess so. That's pretty much my day."

"Those are fine skills to have."

"They're probably pretty outmoded here in the 24th century, though. You must be way beyond what we were doing in 2008."

"Well, that's not my line of work, so I can't say for sure, but I think you would be surprised. Yes, the equipment must be different, but still, it's the understanding of people that is at the heart of good detection: motive, compassion, emotion, desire. People haven't changed all that much."

"But not everyone here is…human."

"You don't have to whisper it, Tony. There's no reason to be ashamed of being a human." Her eyes twinkled.

"That's not what I meant," he said, blushing a little. "People who aren't human must have different ways than humans do."

"Don't worry so much about the differences. Concentrate on the similarities, instead. Excuse me." She turned to serve new customers.

Tony drained his glass and walked out. _Could it be as simple as that? Similarities, across so much time?_

He headed back to his quarters, wanting some food to soak up the synthehol. On the way he passed a couple in an annex exchanging a quick kiss; two kids playing hide-and-go-seek, and a man walking slowly while muttering.

Tim was in their room, with a half-full glass that might be a strawberry milkshake beside him. "It's just so different, this technology," he mumbled.

Tony smiled. "You're approaching it from the wrong point of view, Probie. The tech is different, but the people are the same. And that's what counts."


	2. Differences

_**Chapter 2: Differences**_

- - - - -

Realizing her eyes were open very wide _again_, Ziva forced herself to relax. Now a week into their involuntary stay on the USS _Enterprise_, she was finally feeling she knew her way around…but the moment she thought something was familiar, she found it was not.

As she walked down a hallway—_no wonder everyone is so fit and trim here; there must be_ miles _of hallways_—she was passed by a giggle (there was no better term for it) of pre-adolescent girls, wearing clothing in the same general design as the Starfleet uniforms the adults wore. _Are they being indoctrinated into the military, at such a young age?_ Ziva wondered with a pang in her heart. _Or does this better tie them to the lifestyle of their parents?_ She tried to imagine NCIS with a day care center or kids' afterschool program, and failed. Still, it might be a good thing. Surely the UFP would not have allowed children on board the starship _(what a term!)_ unless there were good measures in place to protect them. And preceding this must have been the UFP's desire to retain the best and the brightest personnel, and not have these people leave the service in their finest years because of a natural desire to raise a family.

It was a difference; another one that poked a hole in her lifestyle. Time would march on, of course it would, but it was always the little familiarities in life that one clung to: that one could find a veggie wrap when one wanted it (they either did not exist now, or the food machine could not understand her), that bedding included a comforter, that her pillow be filled with down. She had none of these here.

She had a small, but ample, room to herself: a guest room, perhaps, as carefully welcoming and impersonal as a hotel room. Were it not for the obvious reasons involving privacy, she would have welcomed sharing a room with one or more of her teammates. But this was the room she had been assigned, and she bore it with no complaint. Silently, though, she envied Tony and Tim being together and having each other to talk to.

Her time with her teammates was short. Tony was always off exploring; Tim was in his own world as he tried to understand the ship's technology, and Gibbs—Gibbs just seemed to evaporate most of the time. She didn't know where he went. Used to entertaining herself, she knocked off her slight feeling of loneliness and set out to meet some of the ship's people.

Ensign Juli Alizadeh was one of the first she met, when Ziva had become lost and unable to find her way back to her quarters. The ensign kindly showed her the way and spared her a few minutes there; answering as best she could the questions that had been pounding in Ziva's brain: _Global warming has not destroyed the earth? No. Was the reliance on fossil fuels still strong? No. Had the extinction of plant and animal species stopped? Slowed greatly, but not stopped, yet. Had world peace been achieved? No, but it was close._

Here Ziva shot up, ramrod straight. "Does that include the Middle East? Are you from there?"

"I'm from California," the ensign smiled. "My father's parents came from Iran, though. And yes, the Middle East is at peace. It's been that way for a long, long time now."

"And Israel?" Ziva pressed, scarcely daring to breathe. "Does it still exist?"

The ensign looked surprised. She was certainly not an historian. "Sure. Why wouldn't it? When I was growing up and we visited my _jaddah's_, my grandmother's, relatives, we'd always make a point of going to Disneyland in Israel. We'd have a great time. Wasn't there once a war in that area?"

"A long time ago, I guess," said Ziva, and scarcely noticed when the ensign left. _Peace at last!_ It brought her to tears.

- - - - -

She was a person who needed more physical activity than just walking. Running through the corridors was probably not advisable. She tried jogging in place in her quarters, but that proved boring. Finally she asked someone, and was told that there was a gymnasium on deck 12. Of course, that meant that she had to _find_ deck 12. She had had little luck in figuring out how to use the computer in her quarters, and every time that she'd become frustrated enough to grab a passing teenager for help, there was never a teenager passing by.

But she did find the gym, after several wrong turns. It was large, had some specialized rooms, and some equipment unfamiliar to her. She loved it at first sight.

Every day she spent three to four hours there…what else was she to do with her free time? Ziva was aware enough of others' needs that she readily yielded to crew members who came in, for they must have fixed schedules. They would smile their thanks at her, but then go to their solitary activities. She was never invited to join them in a sparring match or anything else requiring a second person. She tried not to take it personally; she understood that they just didn't know her yet. But it still hurt a little, and didn't ease her loneliness. _I am just like you!_ she thought. _Yes, I likely died 300 years in your past, but that does not make me different._

_Well, perhaps it does._

Then one day she met someone, and things changed.

When she entered the gym, in the usual crew-style sweats, she found a large, dark-haired man, his back to her, at one of the machines. No one else was in the gym. "Hello!" she called out to him, as she greeted everyone else every day.

She fought to steady herself when he turned around. She had never seen anyone like him. His dark face had a forehead with great wrinkles or folds. Mustering a smile, she said, "I do not believe I have met you. I am Ziva David." She held out her hand.

He looked at her, and her hand for a long moment. "You are one of the people from the 21st century?"

"Is it that obvious?"

He retained a serious look. "English is not my first language, but I can tell your accent is not like any I have heard on this ship."

She frowned. "Because I am Israeli?"

"No, I have met people from Israel. I spent some of my youth in Belarus. I meant that your accent…people today sound a little different."

"You are perceptive. The spoken words I have heard on this ship sound different to me, too."

"Language evolves."

"Yes. I am sorry, I did not catch your name."

He straightened, aware now of the social blunder. "I beg your pardon, Ziva David. I am called Worf, son of Mogh. My rank is Lieutenant."

"Mine is Officer. And you are…from…earth?" There was no good way to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

He almost smiled. Almost. "My race is the Klingons. We are allied with the Federation, but the alliance is sometimes uneasy. I am the first Klingon officer in the Starfleet. But, well…"

He looked a little embarrassed. Ziva sensed he didn't talk a lot, and she had probably drawn a week's worth of speech out of him. "Well, it was nice to talk to you, Lt. Worf," she said. "I will let you get back to what you were doing. Unless you would like to spar with me?"

"With you??" He turned back to her, surprised.

"Why not?"

"You are…tiny. I would crush you."

She smirked. "I do not think so. Try to take me down. With just your hands."

Worf considered again. "Very well. I will try to be gentle."

In a flash he was beside her, but she was quicker. Expertly she flipped him onto his back.

"That should not have been possible," he remarked, still on his back, shocked.

Ziva smiled. "You can try again, if you like."

He got up, and feinted a move. She anticipated it, though, and flipped him in a different way; this time throwing him about five feet.

"How did you do that?" he asked. "You must show me. I am the security chief. I must know these things!"

So she taught him moves and evasions until he could do them nearly as well as she could, and then he showed her ones she had never considered.

"Are all law enforcement people in your time as skilled as you?" Worf asked when they took a break.

"I am attached to the NCIS team by special circumstances," she replied. "In my time, my country is at war and the need for defense is great." She paused. "I am a special operative. I was raised as an assassin."

He only nodded. "A noble calling, under the right circumstances. I thought I recognized a warrior's demeanor in you."

"Is that good or bad?" she asked, hesitantly.

"If you have a purpose, it is good. The warrior is the strength behind any peace."

"Yes, that is what I have always thought! But many people do not understand."

"They never will. Only the warrior blood knows."

- - - - -

They agreed to meet regularly in the gym for sparring. Both liked blade weapons and were eager to show the other what they knew. Any doubts that Ziva had about taking such strange weapons skills back to her own time were shoved aside in her mind. _Knowledge will find its place,_ she thought.

Worf was about to show her the 10-Forward lounge, when, steps away from it, he was called away. Ziva entered on her own. The lounge both was and was not like an American bar of her time. Her eyes sweeping every inch of the place as she approached the bar, she was nonetheless startled when a bartender appeared just as she got to the counter. "Hello, Ziva. What can I get you?"

"How—how did you know my name?" The woman's smile was tinged with mystery, as well as the rest of her appeared to be. _Calm down. So she is an alien. Do not be defensive, _Ziva told herself.

"I know many things," said the bartender. "But it's an easy guess that you're part of that 21st century party. My name is Guinan. Now, what will you have?"

"Uh, Worf said something about a warrior's drink that he likes."

Guinan eyed her. "Do you know what's in it?"

"No, but I would like to try it, please,"

Guinan, still smiling, turned to her freezer. "So, you are the warrior member of your team?"

"Not in those specific terms, but…yes, I suppose I am. I come from a violent background."

A brief flicker like sympathy lit Guinan's eyes, before the enigmatic smile returned. "Here you go. One warrior's drink. Worf drinks nothing else."

The glass was tall and cold; the liquid dark. With just a bit of reservation, Ziva took a large swallow and made a face. "_Prune_ juice?? He drinks _prune_ juice??"

"Not the warrior's drink of your time?" This time Guinan smiled broadly.

"Not…quite. Do you have…shooters?" When Guinan nodded, Ziva outlined what she wanted and soon was alone with her thoughts as Guinan turned to other customers. _Trying something new is not a bad thing, I guess. Worf is nice. So is Guinan. One grows when one tries new things. But this is all so unlike what I know. I just wish there was something to make me feel like I have not lost my...home…_


	3. Fears

_**Chapter 3: Fears**_

Gibbs had been avoiding his team because he was afraid. The word rang in his mind. _Afraid._ He knew that even an experienced Marine like him could be afraid, under the right circumstances, but the thought of admitting that to his team was also terrifying. He was a leader. If the leader didn't have courage, how could he expect his troops to?

Far from home, he was. Untold miles in distance, measured by the speed of light!; 300-plus years. In this time, everyone he knew, everyone he'd ever known, was long dead. Even their grandchildren and their grandchildren's grandchildren were long, long dead. Only Tony, Ziva and Tim were, like him, still alive. The Navy Yard was probably nothing like it was in 2008—if it even still existed.

And yet these people seemed convinced that they could return him and his team to 2008 without much effort! How could they know how to do that? How could they be so certain that they could drop him in 2008 and not 2007 or 2010 or 1910? It couldn't be possible.

Gibbs was starting to accept that he would live the remainder of his life here in the black skies of night, without ever feeling the sun and wind on his face again. Far from his house, his boat, and Shannon and Kelly's graves. The people on board seemed happy enough; maybe they didn't know what they were missing.

One day in the late part of the second week he met a kindly crewmember who named as her country of origin some place Gibbs had never heard of. She was off-duty and had suggested he try something called the _holodeck_, which she led him to. It was a featureless room with lines on the floor and the walls; that alone was disorienting. Then, on her voice command, the room darkened and became (she said) present-day Dublin at night! They sidestepped fantastic (to Gibbs' reasoning) vehicles and people in strange street wear. There was oddly atonal music coming from various spots. Gibbs, through clenched teeth, bade the crewmember to take them back. And she did, to the same lined room.

"Can't you take me back to my own time?" asked Gibbs.

"2008? I'll try, sir. Where?"

"Washington, D.C."

The woman thought a moment, and then said something that Gibbs didn't catch. This time—somehow—they were in daylight, in winter, in sight of the Capitol, and the streets were full of men and women in expensive suits and leather briefcases, and no one else. Full, as in almost shoulder-to-shoulder; _thousands_ of them. They walked and argued with each other, and called each other names like "Liberal pinko!" and "Reactionary!" Gibbs realized that these, amazingly enough, were _congressmen_, even though the number was impossibly high. This was almost a parody of Washington.

"Please," he begged. "I just want to go home. Can't I get a cab somewhere??"

"Agent Gibbs," she said softly, her eyes wide, "this isn't—_End program!"_ she then said loudly. Again, suddenly, they were in the lined room.

"What did you do??" Gibbs said, anguished. "Take me back! I want to go home!"

"Sir, this is the holodeck! Nothing in here is real except the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and you and I."

"Not real??"

"No, sir. The room just creates an illusion. We never left the room."

And he understood, then. This young thing, probably no older than about 19, had projected her own 21st century concept of Washington into whatever computer program operated this strange, participatory theatre. He hadn't been any closer, relatively speaking, to Washington then than he was right now. _Who ever thought that messing with someone's mind like this was such a good idea??_

He found himself sweating. "I think I'd like to get out of here now," he said, and looked around for the exit.

"Of course," she said, and made the exit doors visible. "I'm sorry, sir. This was supposed to help you relax…" She looked worried, as if she was going to get in trouble.

"I'm sure it's…all my fault, ah, Yeoman, is it? I'm just…unfamiliar with the horror—I mean, holodeck. I'll be okay."

"Yes, sir," she said, still not certain as to whether he really was okay, and whether she should leave him alone. Self-preservation took over, however, and she quickly departed.

Gibbs went back to his own, solitary quarters. It was nearly half an hour before he could stop shaking.

- - - - -

Early in the third week, Ziva invited him in for dinner. Actually, she had invited Tony and Tim as well, but Gibbs felt special, somehow, for he had been avoiding his team for three weeks. Now, they were reaching out to him. He had a duty to be there for them, even if he was hurting. The important thing was that they not see his fear.

It was a nice dinner. Of course Ziva did no cooking; the machine-in-the-wall did it all. She ordered the same thing for each of them—pot roast—to make it seem more like a home-cooked meal and less like "dining out." Gibbs pushed aside his own concerns and tried to get involved once again in his team's lives. If it was at all possible—and just maybe it was, he thought now—in five or so weeks they'd all be back in the Yard and this nightmare would be over.

Tony seemed happy and unconcerned, but he could swim handsomely in almost any social group. He said how much he enjoyed poking around the ship and meeting people. Ziva had made friends in the gym. Tim worried Gibbs a little. He'd obviously lost weight. Tony laughed it off, though, saying Tim was just looking for the right woman to convince him to eat instead of just staring at the output of the wall machine. Tim only smiled and nodded a little; his eyes then shining as he told about the marvels he'd discovered on the ship. He said he could probably look for five years and still not find everything.

Gibbs did not volunteer much of what he had been doing; just saying he'd been checking things out. They seemed to accept this.

All were reluctant to part at the end of the meal. Ziva then announced that they would eat together every Wednesday and Sunday night, for they were still a team, and a team sticks together. The men readily agreed.

- - - - -

The alien woman Guinan was one bright spot in Gibbs' day (day after day). Although she never had much time to speak at any length with him, he was warmed by what he was sure was a sincere interest in his well-being. But he did not confide in her about his fears. He spent an increasing amount of time in 10-Forward, and his coffee consumption there lessened as his synthehol whiskey consumption grew. Not that he ever got really drunk…but once or twice Lt. La Forge saw him back to his quarters. Not that he needed the help; not really.

One day Guinan introduced him to another of the _Enterprise's_ officers, Deanna Troi. Gibbs shook Deanna's hand politely, but gave Guinan a glare.

"You don't think you need a counselor, Agent Gibbs?" asked Deanna calmly. "Everyone needs a listening post, from time to time."

"Guinan listens to me," Gibbs said, a bit peevishly.

"And I'm happy to do so," Guinan said sincerely. "You have led such an interesting life, Jethro. But there's something below the surface bothering you. I don't want to force it out of you, but I think you would benefit by talking to someone."

"Let's take a table," said Deanna. "Or would you prefer my office?"

"I notice you didn't give me a chance to say 'no'," said Gibbs.

"No, I didn't," she grinned. "Let's take that far corner. Guinan will see that we're not disturbed. A coffee and a tea, if you please, Guinan."

As soon as they were seated, Deanna remarked, "You're afraid. This is all so strange to you. And you're afraid someone will find out you're afraid…no, I'm not exactly a mind-reader, agent Gibbs. I do have some telepathy, and I'm an empath."

"You…sense feelings and…stuff." He bit his tongue before he could say it was hogwash.

"Yes. Though you have doubts," she smiled playfully. "My aim is not to pry your secrets out of you, Agent Gibbs."

"Call me 'Gibbs'."

"Gibbs. And I'm Deanna. My aim is to help you deal with any emotions that may be getting in your way of your daily functioning."

"I wasn't aware that I was having any problems."

She smiled. "You're a leader. A…like a police squad leader, am I right? You've faced fear; terrible fear before. So this is not new."

"But it's different. I've been in a war. War scares any man who survives it."

"And?"

"I've had…losses in my life."

"Family, I am feeling," she said gently.

"My first wife…and our beautiful little girl…they were murdered."

Deanna's eyes grew large and sad. "I am so sorry. How horrible!"

"At the time, I didn't know if I was afraid to die…I had started drinking a lot…or if I was afraid I _wouldn't_ die."

She gave his hand the softest of squeezes. "And you have a team you're responsible for."

"Yeah." He was surprised by how easy it was to talk to her. "Of course, no one, at least in our time, puts it like that. Every agent thinks, _I've had the training. I can look out for myself. I don't need any one to look out for me._ But that's one of the first things I learned when I went to the supervisory training: _Look out for your people. Make sure they stay safe."_

"It's the extra level of protection for them, after their own stay-safe moves, and their peers looking out for them."

"Exactly. And I want them to _feel_ safe. And to do that, I need to have them always feel that I am in complete control; that everything's okay when we work as a team."

"And?"

"And so I can't let them know that I'm afraid now."

"What are you afraid of?"

He laughed shortly. "Everything in sight! The technology, for one. I've never been a techno-person. McGee—he's on my team—has to keep me up on the tech stuff at the minimum level I can get by with."

"I sense there's more."

He rose and was silent for a minute, and looked out a nearby window with a slight tremble. "It's…this. All this. I've gone beyond science fiction here. The house I lived in has probably been built over three times. Everything I knew is…gone. People weren't meant to go through such shattering changes in their lives."

She looked grave. "What do you see in your future, Gibbs?"

"That I will likely die at some point here in the 24th century, and be buried or whatever according to custom." He barely kept a quaver out of his voice.

"We will be back at earth in about five weeks' time, and it's my understanding that you and your team will be then sent back to your own time. Surely that's not too long a wait."

He sat back down, and leaned forward. "Do you really think that will happen, Deanna?"

She blinked. "I do. Why wouldn't it?"

"I—It just seems like there's so much that could go wrong! Transporting people across time and space—!"

"We got you _here_, didn't we?"

He thought, and then smiled back. "So you did. So you did…I think you've set my mind at ease, a bit."

"I'm glad, then. Would you like to talk again, Gibbs?"

"Maybe. Let me see if I can work this out for myself, first. Thanks, Deanna."

She left, and Gibbs started back for his quarters. But he stopped at the bar counter on the way out.

"You look more peaceful, Jethro," said Guinan.

"I think I just might make it through the next five weeks, Guinan."

"Good for you. Nope, no more whiskey for you today. But come back tomorrow and remind me I said I'd make you one of my specials. It's coffee-based. You'll love it."

He grinned, but could see she wasn't finished. "Something else?"

"Yes. Spend more time with that team of yours. You're a team; you have no responsibilities here…why aren't you all coming into 10-Forward as a team?"

He looked away, as if he'd see the answer sitting nearby. "I don't know."

"Don't let this eight-week vacation pull you apart, Jethro. You'll regret it if you do."


	4. Wonders

_**Chapter 4: Wonders**_

- - - - -

"This is twice today that you've come into my lounge, Tim," said Guinan, looking up to him kindly. "Troubled?"

Tim took a seat at the bar, and gratefully accepted the soft drink she put in front of him. "I'm not really sure, Guinan. I'm just…lost."

It was now five weeks since the NCIS team had come on board the _Enterprise_. After Tim's first few days of being mesmerized by the food machine in the wall, he'd roused himself to leave the quarters he shared with Tony to see what else the ship had to offer. His explorations took him all over the ship.

"I'm not sure I follow, Tim."

"Well, every time I think I'm figuring something out, some device, I discover a new level of complexity. And then I have to stop and figure _that_ out."

Guinan shook her head, but caught his eye to show that she wasn't disappointed in _him_; just, perhaps, his methods. Tony had told her pretty much the same thing: Tim could discover some "ordinary" (by 24th century standards) thing and be caught up in it for hours. "Do you think maybe you're spending too much time with the technology, Tim?"

"I just want to understand it. Guinan, you've told me you've lived for centuries. Do you ever want to stop learning?"

"Stop learning? No. But what I study is people and culture. You worship created things."

That was a little harsh, but maybe necessary. Tim winced. "I can't understand how things work unless I understand the basis on which they were built." He would have added more had not Commander Riker come in then and beckoned Guinan away for some urgent conversation. Tim sighed. No one understood what he was going through.

When he had first realized his perplexed state, shortly after their arrival on the ship, he'd likened it to a man from the time of the Industrial Revolution being dropped in the early 21st century. How to explain how an airplane flies? First you'd probably have to explain to him the aerodynamic forces of lift, thrust, weight and drag. _Thrust_ might be the hardest to comprehend, for it would require something able to go faster than the man had ever seen. You could show him a spinning propeller as illustration of this, but then you'd have to explain what made the propeller go. Even the fuel would be different from anything the Industrial Revolution man would know. He might be eager to learn, but there would be so, so many baby steps to go through. One might have to start with the Wright brothers' early planes, but it would be a long, long explanation to go from there to today's jets.

And as Tim imagined himself to be that Industrial Revolution man, he soon learned he was off target; greatly. His grandfather, born in 1919, had spoken of the marvels of his lifetime, going from those early plane days to sending probes to Mars. It was an enormous leap in development in less than 100 years. But the _Enterprise_, here in the 24th century—compared to Tim's knowledge of the 21st century, the tech was so advanced that he might as well be viewing it from the 1500s.

There were no easy answers; no "ah ha!" moments. Every time he thought and hoped he'd find one, the basis for it was found to be in layers and layers of tech that he didn't understand. He could peel apart the layers to learn how it worked, in the way that you could explain to his day's schoolchildren how lift, thrust, weight and drag made an airplane fly…but it was so time-consuming.

Without much effort he'd figured out how the computer in the quarters he shared with Tony worked. Since no one expected a starship crew to need to know modern tech basics, it took some digging to find reference materials, but they were there. He lost a lot of time going back to his quarters to look up something he didn't understand until Lt. Cmdr. Data loaned him a small computer unit about the size of a cell phone that he could carry around.

Data was an interesting person. At first Tim felt a little ill at ease around the android, but Data was patient and helpful, and Tim found him to be a good resource, when Data wasn't busy (which seemed to be seldom). But there were limitations. Data had no emotions, and could only comprehend, in general terms, Tim's frustration. After a while Tim stopped asking Data for help. Data couldn't give him what he needed. Even Tim wasn't sure what he needed.

Tim voiced a little of his feelings to his teammates, at their bi-weekly dinners. He knew that they understood him, but could they understand his feelings here? Not entirely, it seemed. Tony was not science-oriented; he was willing to accept tech on face value. Tell him what it could do for him, and he'd be satisfied. Gibbs was the same way, although his grumblings increased the less user-friendly something was. Ziva was sympathetic, although she didn't comprehend what was driving Tim.

To his teammates, it probably looking like he was learning just for the sake of learning. But that wasn't it, or even the largest part of it. There was amazing beauty in the weave, the structure of it all, as in Nature's magical pattern, the spiral. How did a sunflower know how to grow that way? How did a minute sea creature know to form a sea shell in the same pattern? The sheer wonder of what he was learning here sometimes brought him to the verge of tears. _How triumphant are our kingdoms,_ he thought. _How magnificent the pebbles out of which they are built._ At times his heart raced with the joy of new frontiers he was crossing.

One day Capt. Picard invited Tim to his ready room. Picard had done this several times before (and Tim knew he'd done the same with Tim's teammates); at first seeming quietly amused by Tim's awe of the ship, and then gradually impressed with his quest for knowledge. "How long do you think it would take for you to feel informed and comfortable here on the Enterprise, Tim?"

Tim was startled by the question, but tried to answer. "I don't know, Captain. Yesterday I thought I had the ventilation system figured out. Then I discovered the coolant chemicals were not what I thought they'd be. I had to stop and research that."

Picard smiled. "Nonetheless, I expect you've learned a lot. Data tells me you have a brilliant mind, by human standards." At Tim's slightly embarrassed look, Picard changed the subject. "You have no duties here, Tim. I would hope you're allowing yourself some time away from all your learning; some time for fun."

"Um…well…"

"What do you like for sport, Tim? Back in 2008?"

"Uh…well, I was never really the athletic type. I keep fit because my job requires it, but for competitive sports, I was always a wash-out."

"Nonsense! Everyone can be good at something. Have you ever tried the sport of kings?"

Tim thought hard. "World domination?" he finally came up with.

Picard laughed, a full belly laugh. "No, no, my lad. _Fencing_! The sport of a gentleman. My favorite pastime."

"Oh!" _Uh-oh._ "I did have to take that, as a gym elective, in college. I was terrible at it." The memory made Tim pale.

"You probably did not have a good instructor. I'll wager that your job experience, including your 'keeping fit', as you say, has put you in better balance now than you were in college. Come; let us go a few rounds, and you can see if you like it better now."

The ship's gymnasium had a separate fencing room. With reluctance, Tim donned the fencing jacket, plastron and cup; knickers, gloves, socks and mask. Picard retrieved his own épée and found one for Tim. After warm-up exercises, the fighting began, although Picard frequently stopped to give Tim tips. "You're left-handed, Tim. When you're facing a right-handed person such as myself, your goal should be to strike at the Prime quadrant if I'm going for the Quarte."

It made sense. "Yes…I think I get it now."

Nonetheless, Tim lost, as was to be expected. But he came away with a small amount of exhilaration; more than he'd ever had while fencing at MIT. He readily agreed when Picard invited him to fence again a week hence. It would almost be fun.

- - - - -

Back to his exploration. Tim tried, early on, to make a list of everything different and new, but abandoned that quickly. There was so much. Elements discovered after 2008; new fuels created, newly-understood principles of physics and chemistry…and he hadn't started looking into what wonders of biology had been discovered. There wouldn't be enough time. Eight weeks was not long enough; not at all.

He smiled back at the crew who smiled at him, sitting for hours in front of a device. He didn't find favor with the head of the engine room, who didn't like him hanging around and so chased him out. He felt both giddy at his discoveries and deflated by his wrong guesses. More time was spent in 10-Forward, and he now waved away the soft drinks in favor of wine. "I need a little something to relax," he explained to Guinan. "I've been studying hard."

"Relaxation should be pleasant," she remarked, while giving him a glass of White Zinfandel. "Most people drink synthehol to smooth off the edges of things they'd prefer to forget."

"You don't think I'm having a good time?"

"Oh, I think you're having a tremendous time. Now, what are you going to do with all this knowledge you're accumulating?"

He studied the glass of wine. "Good question…"

- - - - -

Gibbs startled at the door chime. He didn't get many visitors in his quarters. "Come in."

It was Picard. "Forgive the late-night visit, Jethro. Something has come up."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow and offered him a seat.

"You know that we're three days away from earth. And your home."

"Yes," said Gibbs, unable to repress a grin. "And you say you can drop us off at the time you picked us up?"

"Yes, but to allow a margin of error, we'll make it five minutes later. I'm afraid your criminal will not be caught by you, but rest assured, we will deal with him in this time. But that's not what I'm here about; not exactly."

"Well?"

"Jethro—one of your team has requested to stay on with the _Enterprise_, and to join Star Fleet. I've approved their request."

Gibbs felt ice flow over his body. "Who?" he rasped.

Picard shook his head slightly. "That news should come from them. I'll see that they talk to you, as soon as possible."

Picard exited, leaving Gibbs feeling breathless.


	5. Going Home

_**Chapter 5: Going Home**_

- - - - -

Gibbs stewed, despaired, and grumbled in his quarters for more than an hour after Picard left. The food-machine-in-the-wall device did not dispense synthehol, he discovered; for that he was directed to 10-Forward. He sighed and settled for coffee. _Who is it? Which one? And why do they want to leave so badly?_

After another hour, getting on past midnight, his door chimed again. Guinan poked her head in. "Jethro, I'm so sorry for calling on you this late…but I took a chance…"

"Come in, Guinan. Come in."

"Well, this isn't really about me. It's about…" She looked to her side. "Come on, you. He won't bite. He might do that head-hit thing, but I really don't think he'll bite." She then pulled the person in.

"_Tony!"_ Gibbs was so surprised he stood up. This was not who he had expected.

"I'll leave you two to discuss things," Guinan smiled, and left, the door snicking quietly closed behind her.

"Is it true…?"

Tony smiled, a little uncertainly. "Yeah. It is. I'm staying on here, boss."

"But why??"

"Oh, it's nothing personal, boss. I love NCIS! But this…this is an opportunity I can't turn down."

"Are you sure you've thought this through?? You'll be leaving your own time, and everything you know…"

Tony smiled a little brighter, and Gibbs saw in his face that he had indeed given this a lot of thought. "I know that. On the other hand, people in this time are really no different than people in our time. I've been a cop of one sort or another for all of my adult life. They don't have anyone with quite that background on board. They think I'll be _valuable_!" Tony's eyes shone.

"I'll start out as a lieutenant, j.g.," he continued. "That's fine with me. I won't have to go the full route through Starfleet Academy. The captain says I have enough applied knowledge to place out of most of the courses. The rest I can take online. And then I can likely advance pretty quickly. I might even go into command someday."

"But won't you miss your life in your real time, in 2008?" Gibbs tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. "Your home, your interests…"

Tony sobered. "I'll miss NCIS. No doubt about that. But…"

"But you found your dream."

"I guess I did. I really did." He accepted Gibbs' sudden hug, and returned it. "Thanks, boss, for not being mad."

"Mad? How could I be mad? You're moving on to another stage." Gibbs looked him straight in the eyes, and smiled, though sadness was apparent behind the smile. "The only downfall is that if you were still in our time, I might get to see you now and then."

"I know, and that kills me," Tony said with a catch in his throat. "If there were any other way…"

"Stop. You have a brilliant future ahead of you here. Picard is an excellent leader, and his officers are all superb. They'll do well by you, and they'll be glad to have you. That makes me happy."

"We still have two whole days until we reach earth," Tony said, wistfully.

"And we'll squeeze every minute out of them that we can," said Gibbs, making Tony smile again. "_After_ a good night's sleep, of course. Tony—?"

Tony had started to leave but turned back. "Yeah, boss?"

"I'm so very proud of you."

Tony only grinned, and shook his head. No time to get mushy. That could wait for the end.

- - - - -

Early the next morning, Gibbs' door chimed again. He'd barely woken up. "One moment," he said, and quickly got dressed. "Enter." He mentally whacked himself for saying that. It was a phrase Picard used, and didn't seem right coming from him. "Ziva?!"

She came in, looking a trifle uncertain. "I talked to Tony late last night. I assume you have heard…?"

"He's staying on. Yes." Gibbs held back a sigh. He'd hoped it had all been a bad dream, but evidently not. He'd be going home with one man left behind.

"I was shocked," said Ziva. "Well, maybe not too surprised. But it makes what I have to say a little easier, perhaps…"

"What is that?" asked Gibbs, now apprehensive.

She took a deep breath. "I, too, have asked to stay on the _Enterprise_—but not permanently, like Tony," she hastened to add. "Just for a couple of years."

"A couple of years!"

"Yes. See, this is an amazing opportunity. Do you not understand, Gibbs? There is peace in the Middle East in this time!! I am signing on for a four-year tour of duty with the _Enterprise_. Four years and six months, actually. After two years and nine months I will be eligible to take a six-month leave of absence, partially paid, and tour Israel and the rest of the Middle East by myself, with Starfleet supplying my credentials. I will be able to walk down streets that are not rattled by gunfire or bomb blasts. I will be able to see Jews and Muslims living side by side, and calling each other 'brother' and 'sister.' Living and working together in harmony…the way we always should have…the way I have always dreamed we would…" She started to tear up.

"And then?" Gibbs asked gently.

"Then I shall return to the _Enterprise_ and serve out my remaining one year and three months. And at the earliest convenience of the _Enterprise_, I will then be returned to the 21st century."

He grinned hugely. "So it will be like you never left!"

She smiled back, but hesitated. "Well…almost. I will be four years older then, Gibbs. That might be hard to hide, so I might not come back to 2008. I would hope no later than 2010, though. It depends on how much older I look. I wonder, though, could I…possibly…"

"Get your job back at NCIS? I'll move mountains if I have to to make it happen. The closer to 2008 you come, though, the easier it might be."

"I will try," she grinned again.

Gibbs finally motioned to her to sit down. "So, you've cleared this with Picard and all? I know what Tony's going to be doing on the ship; what about you?"

"I will be working with Lt. Worf," she said, sounding pleased. "I do not mind at all being part of Security. It is what I do best."

"You'll be outstanding, I'm sure."

"And I will be someone to keep an eye on Tony," she laughed. "For four years, anyway."

Gibbs grinned again. Two of his team were leaving him—one permanently—but they seemed so happy in their choices that he couldn't feel too sad. At least not yet. Not until tomorrow, when they reached the jumping-off point.

- - - - -

When Ziva left, Gibbs puttered in his quarters for a bit, unable to sit still, or to go back to sleep. Finally he realized the source of his anxiety was that he hadn't talked to Tim in nearly 24 hours. Tim was the one that he had expected would be staying on, when Picard dropped the bombshell last night. _Maybe he is and he hasn't told me,_ Gibbs thought with alarm, and hurriedly cleaned up and shaved.

He went to the quarters Tim and Tony shared. Tim was there, reading something on the computer. Tony was out. "Hi, boss," said Tim, with a smile. "We're almost there!"

"You are…coming back to 2008?"

Tim looked surprised. "Of course I am! That's my home."

Gibbs was dumbfounded. "But you've been having such a great time on the _Enterprise_. Exploring, learning, discovering…"

"So why am I not staying, like Tony and Ziva?" Tim crossed his arms behind his head as Gibbs got a coffee from the wall machine, and a diet-Coke-like drink for Tim. "All sorts of reasons. Don't get me wrong, boss; I've enjoyed our eight weeks here, but…do you remember me saying a few weeks back how frustrating it also was?"

"Yes, but I wasn't sure how serious it was. Tim, with a mind like yours, you could go far in Starfleet!"

Tim shook his head vigorously. "No. That's where you're wrong. It would take me _years_ to catch up to the tech levels. And I'm not even sure that I _would_ catch up. There is just so unbelievably much to learn. Yes, I'm bright. I'm vain enough that I've always liked being at the top of my class. At NCIS, in 2008, I can be of some use. Here, I would just be a bright guy who was woefully lacking in education. Oh, I'm sure they'd all be nice to me, but after a while, I'd really resent it. I'd rather be the 'big fish in the small pond', boss. I'd rather be in 2008, where I can be the one with the answers. The bright, educated one."

"But you'd be giving up so much!" Gibbs wondered at his own words. He hoped Tim didn't think he wanted him to stay!

"Not really," Tim smiled shrewdly. "I've committed a lot of what I've learned here to memory. And made notes on my Blackberry. It won't revolutionize our time, but I'm sure some of this stuff can be put to use."

He grew calm. "That's not the only reason, though, why I'm not staying here. Tony…he really doesn't have much to tie him to our time. He can afford to let go. So can Ziva, though I think she feels a little more tied to us and that's why she'll only be gone a year or two, in our terms. But I have my family to think of. How selfish it would be of me to run out on them. I love my folks, I love my sister. The thought of never seeing them again kills me. I couldn't do that to them, abandoning them, even if I could get a message to them. They raised me; they have the right to see me through life.

"I don't belong in this time. I can't wait to get home."

Gibbs smiled. "I know just what you mean."

- - - - -

And the remaining time was all too short. Dressed once again in the clothes they'd come on board in, Gibbs and Tim reported to the transporter room at the designated time. Picard, Will, Guinan and of course Tony and Ziva were there to see them off.

"It's been a pleasure having you, Jethro, Tim," Picard shook their hands. "I'm glad to know that the Navy is in good hands in your time. Godspeed."

Will also shook their hands, and Guinan hugged them. "You two be good," she said, shaking a finger at them. "I've done some time traveling myself, and I just might come and check up on you."

"You'd be welcome," said Gibbs, and Tim grinned.

Ziva and Tony wore Starfleet uniforms now, both with gold upper-body that denoted their assignment to security and operations. "I can't believe we're saying goodbye," said Tim, stepping over to them to shake hands.

To his surprise, Tony grabbed him and enveloped him in a bear hug. "Keep up the good work, Probie," Tony rasped. "I know you'll go far…in your time."

Tim felt his eyes grow moist. "I had a good teacher in you, Tony."

"Of course you did. And you'll be senior agent on the team, now; how about that?? Promise me you'll treat the new agentlets well. Oh, and promise me that you'll call at least one of them 'Probie'."

"Uh, I don't think…"

"Promise me!"

"Okay, okay!"

Ziva hugged Tim and kissed him on the cheek, and then handed Gibbs and Tim a small stack of folded papers. "These are notes to…to people who need to get notes. Tony and I wrote them. Would you please see that these people get them?"

"We will," said Gibbs, and hugged both her and Tony. "It wouldn't be so bad if you two were just going halfway around the world. I wish there was some way we could stay in touch…"

"There is," Ziva smiled, blinking away the tears that were already coming. "We have worked it out. Tony and I both have our cell phones, and we can take many pictures of each other. And when the chips are full, Data will create something that will allow us to record more pictures; all that we want. These I will bring back to you when I return to our time."

"But I need memories for now," said Tony, raising his cell phone. "Say 'cheese'." He snapped several pictures.

"In position, Captain," said the transporter operator.

"Make it so," said Picard.

"Bye!" "Bye!" "Bye!" And the transporter turned people into a shimmer of light.

- - - - -

Tim and Gibbs landed, on their feet, in the field in which they'd been pursuing their suspect, eight weeks before. As then, the weather was cloudy and muggy.

Tim checked his watch. "I think we were only gone eight minutes."

Gibbs felt his pockets. "Blast! Did Tony—"

"Yep." Tim held up the truck keys. "Are we going back to HQ?"

"I guess we have to. We'll stop for lunch along the way. It'll give me more time to think up a story to tell the Director."

"You're not going for the truth."

"Not this time. Let's drive."

They both looked skyward, and then got in the truck.

- THE END -


End file.
